


Casualties of War

by Maplesyrup



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Doctor President, Doctor Who AU, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Forced Orgasms, Gallifrey, Hot Tub, Humor, Orgasm Denial, Smut, Spankings, Sub Clara, We're All Mad Here, clara - Freeform, doctor who - Freeform, dom Doctor, twelve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve and Clara end up on Gallifrey, and things go downhill from there.<br/>Doctor Who AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Before_

 

The corruption of his best intentions started with a thin line. 

Drawn in the sand, a dare to the council to cross over it and see what kind of Time Lord he truly was.

And someone crossed it.

Everything happened in a blur of chaos and violence and when the carnage finally stopped, he was drenched in sweat, covered in dirt, and had his booted foot on the neck of the now-deposed President.

No one died that day, surprisingly, but that was less intent and more coincidence. The thin line in the sand wormed through his brain, bisecting good intent from darker tendencies.

He turned to see his companion staring at him with a mix of fear and bewildered awe, a silent tear tracking down her face. He grinned, a feral, dirty thing, and pointed. 

" _Bring her_."

 

After

 

He settled into his new position easily enough, donning the golden collar and sanguine-red robes. He broke with tradition to wear an impeccable white suit, the color of bleached tree bark in the hot Gallifreyan sun. A tall staff was held upright in one hand, crowned with a swirling design that resembled the movement of planets. The other hand was drumming an impatient rhythm on the armrest of his throne. 

It was like this that Clara saw him as she was roughly shoved into the large stone court. The manacles around her wrists clanked heavily as she surveyed this cold world around her.

She was clean enough, Gallifreyans believed in purity of skin even in their slaves, but was dressed in brown rags, the material too thin to provide any real warmth, but lucky for her, it was something akin to summer and she was warm enough in her prison.

Heavy hands push her further forwards and she stumbles a little, turning to glare at the guards behind her, refusing to be intimidated by their dark garb in all its weird angles. 

How the hell can they be comfortable in those things, she thinks even as her attention is drawn by something dark and sinister calling her name.

She turns back to the Doctor and realizes he's the one speaking, and in a voice that both terrifies her and arouses her and Jesus, she feels like that's crossing a line towards depravity. She's never been conventional, she travels the universe in a blue phone box with a clever little madman for chrissakes, but this? This is fucked.

"Doctor," she starts and her voice is shaky with fear and anger, "Doctor, what the hell is going on?"

Pain shoots into her lower back, and she falls onto her knees with a yelp and a curse and she's too shocked to get back up and deck the fucker who hit her.

"You will respect the President, slave." One of those black-garbed lummoxes spits out behind her and she's this close to fighting back at him when the Doctor speaks again.

"Now, now, she's new and unbroken, she'll learn." And oh, his voice, that sexy voice so resembling a man of the Scottish Isles from earth, that voice that's kept her awake late at night as she's imagined what he'd say to her while he touched her, is oily and perverted, twisted, and still, _still_ she's aroused to distraction. She wonders if there's something in the atmosphere here, like that one planet they visited where a too-deep breath made everything look like it was viewed through a fish-eye lens.

She tries to marshal her body, to remember she's in rags for some as yet unknown reason, her Doctor is sitting in a cold stone throne with a disturbing look in his eye as he stares at her, and she's fucking manacled. Oh, and there's the whole "apparently I'm a slave now" thing. Alright, fine, she can handle this, she's faced worse. Daleks, aliens trying to commandeer her mind, her boss. This? This is nothing. She's fine. She'll be fine.

She pushes herself back up and stares right back at him, glaring, fierce and tiny and hot like a small star and his mouth quirks upwards at her show of insolence.

"Excuse me, _President_ ," she spits the word out like it tastes bad, "care to tell me what's going on?" She raises an eyebrow and hears the guards move up behind her again and tenses for a strike that never comes. The Doctor (President?) raises a hand and it stops them in their tracks, though she can tell they aren’t happy about it. They want to hit her and see her fall, and see the praise in their new President’s eyes for their obedience to rules.

The Doctor (for he’ll never stop being the Doctor, not truly, not to her) rises from his throne and makes his was to her with slow and measured steps, eyes focused solely on her and she stares back, one eyebrow still raised in challenge and disbelief and she’s screaming at him in her mind _what the fuck, what the FUCK is going on?_

He stops in front of her and drags his eyes from hers down to her toes and back, lingering in certain places and smiling a secret little smile that she wants to slap off his face. She hears him hum in contemplation before he looks up at the guards and says, “Leave us” and then they’re gone, the heavy slide of a door letting her know that it’s just the two of them in the room and she almost collapses in relief.

“Jesus bloody Christ, what the hell are you on about?” She spares him a nasty look promising retribution before her attention shifts to the cuffs on her wrists, trying to find a weakness in the lock or the links binding them together. “Help me off with these, yeah?”

He stands there, brow furrowed, and looks down at her. He doesn’t say a word and she stops her fussing to look back up at him. “Doctor?”

A hand, _his_ hand, shoots up and wraps itself around her neck and he’s pushing her backwards until her back hits a cold stone wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs, or it would have, had his hand not been cutting off her airflow in both directions.

Her manacled wrists draw up and her hands scrabble at him, pushing at his chest, trying to pry him off as black spots start dancing in her vision. She begins to go limp, lose fight and her hands fall down heavily over her lap when he lessens the pressure the tiniest fraction, and it’s enough for her to take in just enough air, her senses restored to her once more.

Her eyes meet his and the normally warm blue orbs that look at her with such exasperated affection are now hard and cold and she flicks her gaze to his mouth, curled in a snarling grin and he parts his lips to speak.

“Did you not hear my guards?”

Her brain is foggy from lack of oxygen and she doesn’t immediately understand what he’s talking about, but then it hits her. 

_Fuck._

He’s buying into this. He’s seriously buying into this whole ‘President of Gallifrey’ thing and goddamn it, she really is going to slap him as soon as the manacles are removed. Maybe a good box to the ears will clear this shit up quick. She’s not a violent woman but everyone has their limits.

_Ok, Clara, think fast._

She scans the room quickly to clarify that they are truly alone and she sees two doors, one on either side of the throne? Seat? What-the-hell-ever it was. She knows there’s a door behind her and vaguely where it leads, having been shoved quickly all the way from the cells to this room, but what’s behind doors two and three?

She wants to kick him in the groin, stupid ass, but he’s obviously temporarily insane and she prefers to let the physical assault of her person stop at her throat. She feels him squeeze her again.

“Answer me, Clara.”

At least he remembers her name, if not who the hell he really is.

She makes a calculated choice then, intent on surviving whatever the fuck he’s planning, and her instincts are screaming at her to play dead, just play dead and give him what he wants in this moment and figure out the rest later.

So she listens to them and shrinks away, a sign of defeat and fright and it’s not entirely an act.

“Yes, President.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events progress beyond the throne room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where we start to get into some of the dubious non-con.

"Yes, President."

He smiles, and the warmth of it just barely reaches his eyes, still hard and cold but crinkling slightly in the corner and she wonders, is he fucking with her?

“Good girl.”

He draws out the _good_ and she almost melts right there. He’s mad, possessed, her fluffy-haired best friend turned into some kind of monster and she’s terrified but also aroused and if she were a behaviorist, she’d have enough fodder for a thesis.

He pulls her away from the wall and she follows willingly, mostly because his fingers are still around her throat. His thumb presses her pulse point and he frowns, apparently checking her heartbeat. It’s hammering in her chest, and she can’t fake that or stop it, but lucky for her, he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy it, if the gentle cluck of his tongue she hears as he feels the rapid beats echo through her chest up to her neck is any indication. His brow is still furrowed, but in mock-sympathy for her plight.

His hand moves higher, his fingers coming to trace along her jaw and his thumb drags across her lower lip, pulls it down slightly before letting it go. His long forefinger traces her upper lip, lighter than the bottom but she hardly notices for the look in his eyes.

He’s _burning_ , something is lit fierce inside him, consuming him from the inside out and she’s terrified in actuality this time because he’s not looking at her with pain, or fear or anything that would say, “Help me, Clara”. No, he’s feeling something altogether different.

He’s…pleased.

She takes a chance, darts her eyes down and then quickly back up.

He’s _very_ pleased.

_Fuck._

_…Probably._

_Oh god._

There is an ancient, insane, _aroused_ male in front of her and no matter that he was her best friend a day (two days?) ago, right now he isn’t, he’s something _other_ but very aware of what he is and she’s in a fuckload of trouble.

This isn’t how she ever pictured this happening for them.

She’d been aware that her feelings for him had grown…beyond friendly, but anytime she’d imagined them together, he was himself and even though he’d never given an indication that his feelings mirrored hers, she’d always hoped he’d snap one day and pull her in and just devour her.

But now… he’d snapped now and not at all in the way she’d once hoped.

She’s racking her brains, trying to think of all the things he told her about his planet, about the customs, the rituals and rites and did they marry? Of course they did, but did Time Lords? Jesus, marriage? _Slow the fuck down, Clara, think._

_The President, what had he said about the President?_

_…Nothing._

He’d said nothing because saying nothing meant the President was nothing. She knows how he feels about the governing body of his home world and it’s…not kind.

She’s got nothing but that. Maybe she can use it to convince him to…not do what she thinks he wants to do right now. Or at least deter him long enough to hit him with something and run away somehow, and she’ll apologize when they get back to the TARDIS and fly away and one day they’ll laugh about this.

Her mind races, thoughts tumbling like someone pouring marbles out of a bag, and she’s not paying enough attention to him so when he pushes her towards the door to her left, throne right she’s caught completely off guard and forgets she’s trying to be docile to stall for time to figure out a plan. She digs her bare heels into the slippery white floor and fights him as he grabs and arm and really puts effort into moving her.

She’s pretty goddamn sure it’s a bedroom to which he’s dragging her and the whole thing feels so fucking caveman-like, which isn’t helped when he seems to tire of her struggles and hoists, fucking _hoists_ her over his shoulder and she has a brilliant view of his ass from the angle and the oddly intentional split up the center of his blood-red robe. Normally, she’d relish the luck, but at this particular moment her only thought is _holy fucking fuck_.

She sees him wave a hand, upside down to her, and the door opens and her brain yells _Star Trek!_ and she’s almost giggling and worried if she hasn’t snapped, too.

The floor of this cavernous room is white, too, and looks just as slippery, so if she thought she’d run, she’ll need to make damn sure he’s good and knocked the hell out before she does, otherwise…yeah, she doesn’t want to think about that.

He keeps walking with her over his shoulder and if she wasn’t trying not to piss herself from fear or throw up from the bouncing and the angle, she’d find it funny. He stops at a door, does the hand-wave and sets her down pretty gently onto the floor of…a bathroom?

She hazards a glance around, sees a large sunken tub, more hot tub than bathing tub, really. A sink, toilet, mirror, yes, this is a bathroom and it’s also very white. _Crack deduction, Oswald_. Why is everything so white?

He pulls her hands up and she remembers the awful why of the situation. A whimper escapes her, she can’t help it, and his blue eyes come briefly to her face but she can’t read his expression, all she knows is he’s unlocking the manacles at her wrists and she should really be watching to see how he does it in case he locks her up again but she can’t take her eyes off his face, how placid it seems in comparison to the snarling lust from earlier in the throne room. But his eyes, jesus, the fire is still in them, that’s for sure.

He ducks his head a little closer to the cuffs, and she wonders what the trouble is before she’s face to, well, hair and his soft silver curls are right there. She loves his hair, touches it whenever she gets the chance and she’d really like to right now. She’s starting to feel a little calmer in here, even with her maniac standing there and the unknown looming.

 _Her_ maniac?

She realizes somewhat detachedly how strange the whole situation is now that they're out of the cold throne room and he’s not staring at her with that odd mix of contempt and desire, maybe it was a show that just had to carry on for awhile and he—

Her thoughts are cut off as the shackles clang onto the floor and she has barely a second to register freedom before he’s scooping her up and taking her over to the tub, which is filled with hot, steaming water, when the hell did that happen?

She’s not over his shoulder this time and she wonders why, but dimly registers how nice it is to be held like this by him, maybe he’s going to just let her have a warm bath and tuck her in and she’ll wake up and it will all be the most fucked up dream she’s ever had.

He sets her down gently and she sees there are stone steps that lead into the water, very inviting tendrils of steam curling and dissipating into the air around them. She very much wants to take that hot bath and let the past couple of days melt away.   
  
Clara waits for him to turn away but he stands there watching her, seeming to wait for something. She looks at him, some of her fear coming back and sees him raise a hand and point a finger.

“Off.” He gestures to the sack she wears. “In.” He points to the water behind her.

She makes a small noise of protest, unwilling to say what she wants, which is for him to turn the hell around, please but his epic eyebrows lower dangerously over his piercing, burning blue eyes.

“You really don’t want me to do it for you, Clara.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, here there be dubious consent. Consider yourselves warned!

_“You really don’t want me to do it for you, Clara.”_

Oh sweet lord, that voice. Low and dark and hotter than the water behind her and she feels it settle somewhere between her legs despite the fear it also inspires. 

She closes her eyes, battling with herself for a moment, wondering what he’d do if she outright denied him, and under normal circumstances she would definitely deny him, but this wasn’t normal, this was a dream, right? And you could do anything in dreams, including get stark naked in front of an ancient spaceman who clearly wants to see you and fuck you.

She grasps the hem and turns from him, figuring since he didn’t specify she could give him the side of her with the least to see, or so she thinks. She’s suddenly glad they do a lot of running, literally, around the universe.

She needs a shrink.

Clara yanks the fabric over her head before she can think too much about it and steps quickly into the water and hisses like a cat at the temperature but it soothes sore muscles she didn’t realize were aching and it makes her feel pleasantly drowsy, her thoughts growing a bit muddled. She moves to the center, and it dips much lower in the middle, the water coming just above her breasts and she takes a deep breath and dunks under.

She spends a few moments just existing under the warm water before she’s startled back to the surface when she feels another body disturb the water around her. She’s up like a shot, sputtering and pushing her hair back when she sees the Doctor very close to her. 

She looks up for a second before she crosses her arms over herself and backs away slowly, and she hopes he doesn’t see the movement for what it is.

He follows her, the water only reaching his middle at the deepest part and her legs hit a ledge jutting out of the tub wall, forcing her to sit abruptly. She pulls her knees up to help hide her body under the water and is so, so _aware_ of the Doctor backing up, sliding into the space across from her, also very naked himself.

Clara never gave thought to the possibility of deep ambivalence, but she’s smack in the middle of it. Fear on one side, lust on the other and they’re waging war in her, moment to moment and she feels like she’s going crazy as the lust starts to win out. Her body is ready to happily comply with his obvious wishes and is quickly overthrowing her mind's protests.

She’d been staring at her knees but brings her head up when the Doctor shifts and glides under the water for a quick second before emerging, his silver hair slicked back and darker from the water, like a seal pelt. He moves in front of her, kneeling, and he’s so much taller than her that it’s nothing to him to just…kneel on the floor of an intergalactic hot tub and still have head and shoulders above the water.

He’s got one hand on either side of her and is just staring, like he’s trying to read her damn mind  with those huge blue eyes, the defining feature of his face in this moment, thrown into great relief with his normally wild curls tamped down by the water. She wants to push him away, _thanks but no_ , _get out of my head_ , _weirdo!_ , but she can’t say those normal things, not to this Doctor, not until she knows how he’ll react to smaller bits of defiance.

She’s glad to know her base survival instincts are intact.

She feels one of his hands slide up her leg and breathing suddenly becomes much harder, despite his surprisingly gentle touch. His grip tightens slightly and the other hand comes to her other leg, his long fingers wrapping around her calves and he’s pulling her legs down and around his ribs, never once taking his eyes from hers.

He can see everything, _everything_ on her face, she fucking knows it like she knows her own name, and she’s so aroused and a little scared and doesn’t know what the fuck to do so she does nothing but stare back and doesn’t care if her face shows anything, everything, nothing, whatever.

He slides his hands down her thighs and places them back on either side of her and presses forward a bit. Her belly clenches from the simple movements, but she manages to bite back the moan threatening to erupt. No way in hell is she going to verbally show him what he’s doing to her when he’s already seeing her expressions.

His eyes flick to her mouth and his own quirks in the ghost of a smile, eyes traveling down to her arms still crossed over her breasts under the water. He frowns when he sees her covering herself, but it’s not the angry frown from earlier, or the teasing frown when he played with her lips. It's different, almost...concerned. His eyes return to hers, that ridiculous brow still furrowed and he pulls back the smallest bit. She feels his hands close over her forearms and pull and she really wants to resist but her body doesn’t listen.

He places her hands on his chest, palms flat, and he’s still staring at her as he leans in a little and her hands provide the slightest bit of resistance against him as he slowly grins, still looking menacing, but there’s some kind of weird tenderness there that is making her head spin.

His hands disappear below the water and she jumps when she feels one large hand slide from  her hip, up the dip in her waist to brush a thumb against the underside of her breast and this time she can’t hold back the noise that escapes her and she whimpers in his face.

His face takes on a triumphant, smug look and he gently cups his hand around the rest of her breast, causing her to let out a shuddering breath as he palms her. His gaze is so focused on her face and she knows he's taking in every detail, her plans for being stoic going right out the fucking window.

His long fingers find her nipple and give a gentle squeeze, coaxing it into hardness, making her give a short, keening cry, her face contorting briefly into a mask of pleasure-pain. The smug look is gone from his face. He’s focused on her entirely, she realizes he’s learning her and her reactions to his touches and she wonders belatedly where her fear went. The world has coalesced to the two of them and the hot water and his large hands on her tiny frame.

His eyes leave her face and he watches himself touch her under the water, playing with her breast as his second hand comes up to touch the other one like the first. Bolts of sensation shoot from her nipples to between her legs and she knows she’s hotter than the water around her. She keens again, longer than before, her head lolling back a little against the edge of the tub and he takes advantage of the exposure of her neck to kiss her, right where her voice box would be, and he nips the flesh there like he wants to eat the moans she’s making.

She should not want this, should be trying to get away from him, to beg him to stop, _not like this, not this way, take me back to the TARDIS_ , but she lets it happen, all too happy to finally have his hands on her, a thing she’s wanted for years. So maybe it’s not the way she pictured it and maybe he’s out of his mind but it feels so fucking good to feel him like this and all she wants is more.

She starts squirming against him, hips rocking slightly, her body demanding more than the gentle squeezes at her breasts. He freezes for a moment before sliding his hands from her breasts back to her waist and she gives a moan of disappointment before realizing that his hands have started to traverse a very different path.

Oh.

_Oh._

The Doctor slips a hand between her legs and ghosts his fingers over the top of her mons and the small, neat patch of curls there and she hears him give a low, quiet rumble. Her hips cant upwards of their own accord at the sound, accidentally nudging his fingers lower to brush against the hood of her clitoris and she sucks in a short breath at the sensation that shoots through her.

He stills his fingers, and she brings her head back up, the heat of the water and her mental exhaustion making her far more pliable than she normally would like and she can’t form words, only stare at him, confused.

He stares back, his face blank but his eyes scorching and she feels his hands grip her waist before he switches their positions and pulls her to straddle him as he sits on the stone seat. She’s already light and the water lends her buoyancy that makes it ridiculously easy for him to move her as he pleases and while she’s all too happy to let him in this moment, some of her fear returns, settling in her spine and blunting the excitement working through her.

He’s so big, so much different than her. Not just tall, but built entirely different, male and wiry with muscle despite his age. Four and a half million years and he doesn’t look a day over fifty. Not to mention he’s an alien, best not to forget that. _Especially now, Clara_. 

He settles her legs on either side of his and she feels her thighs slide against his narrow, almost bony hips, spreading wide and a hand is pushing at her lower back to bring her closer and his eyes are on her face, watching, but she barely notices, her attention taken entirely by the very large piece of his anatomy that’s bumped against her vulva.

She knows water has a tendency to distort things, but this is ridiculous. He’s _massive_. 

Clara gulps audibly and continues to stare at him—it— with anxious fascination, almost forgetting the thing is attached to him. Well, this explains the generous amount of fabric in the front of the trousers the Doctor wears. And gives whole new meaning to the term “trouser snake”.

Despite her apprehension, she snorts a laugh, but oh, that was probably the wrong thing to do while staring in the direction of his penis.

She looks up, cringing a little when she sees his face. Yep.

His look is thunderous and a little affronted and she finds herself surprised. It never occurred to her that Gallifreyan males would be sensitive about their genitalia, but, well, they are _male_ after all. Isn’t that their universal prerogative?

The Doctor grips her hips rather hard, enough to make her wince, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s sliding her along the length of him, back and forth, the water tossing a little with his movements, and she’s shocked to her toes, so goddamn turned on and scared shitless. Not for the first time is she wondering whether she’s gone insane.

He feels…so good against her. Hotter than the water and her hands come up without her realizing it to grip his shoulders as he grinds her against him, little gasps and noises of frustration leaving her mouth as he doesn’t quite hit the spot she needs him most.

She clenches the muscles of her thighs and lets out a curse, the word unnaturally loud in her ears, as he stops the movement, one of his hands releasing her hip to move between her legs and cup her, his touch firm against her labia, fingers pressing and parting her ever so slightly. She whimpers and moves against his hand, and hears him speak to her in that fucking voice.

“Yes, Clara. _Good_ girl.”

The echo of his earlier words makes her whimper again, eyes wide on his face, lost to anything but sensation and the desire to be filled to the brim with _him_.

His hand shifts, the pad of his thumb sliding up her slit to trace slow, lazy circles around her clitoris and her eyes slam shut, her body bowing, hands gripping his shoulders so hard she’s going to leave marks and he twists his wrist to slide two long, long fingers inside her and starts pumping them and she’s fucking gone.

Nothing else matters to her existence than his fingers playing her like a goddamn fiddle, and when they find that sensitive spot inside her, that little patch of nerves that so loves to be plucked and stroked and his thumb is making tighter and tighter circles around her clit, she’s close, so maddeningly close and oh, so ready to let go, to clench around him and his hand is pressing on her lower back and—

_BANG!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are my favorite kind of hangers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation after bath-time.

Clara jerks in his arms, dazed and wrenched away from the beginning of her orgasm as the Doctor withdraws his fingers in surprise at the noise and her body wants to fucking kill her and him and she wants to fucking kill whom or whatever made that noise. She looks at the Doctor helplessly, frustrated tears brimming in her eyes like she’s a child being denied a treat after behaving so well for Daddy. Her body is screaming, begging for something to fill her and she doesn’t know whether to cry or scream. She just sits there clenching and unclenching her hands on his shoulders.

He’s glaring past her towards the door and she hears an angry, feral growl come from his throat. She’s pulled up and out of the water harshly and he lays her down on the floor at the edge of the tub and she shrieks at the feeling of cold stone beneath her after long minutes in the hot water. 

She has that split second to feel before his hands are pushing her thighs apart and his mouth…

“Oh, _god!_ ”

He’s latched onto her core like she’s sustenance and he the dying man. He’s lapping at her, swirling his tongue over every inch of her labia, his rather large nose nudging her clitoris and she’s giving him shocked moans as her thighs clamp around his head.

_BANG!_

The Doctor is still licking her, devouring her, and speeds up at the second _bang_ , this one closer than the last. Clara is almost distracted again, and makes a noise of protest and fear of being seen if whomever is trying to get in gets through, but he silences her with a nip to her folds and a muffled, “ _No_.”

Fuck it, fuck it all, she thinks, surrendering to the merciless ministrations of his clever mouth and tongue and nose, and since when were noses clever?

_Who fucking cares._

She's coiled tight as a spring and when she thinks she can’t take it anymore, opens her mouth to beg him to stop, to leave her tortured flesh be, he thrusts two fingers back into her and he’s sucking hard on her clitoris and she shatters.

Her back arches off the hard floor and she’s shouting a chorus of _oh god_ , and _yes_ , and _Doctor!_ over and over in time with the clenching of her inner walls.

One last, loud, close _bang_ and the bathroom door is prized open by a soldier in that weird, architectural armor, two others following him inside the bathroom, and Clara has a split second to realize she’s naked in front of strangers before the Doctor is standing, facing the intruders fully naked himself, but using his body to shield hers from their eyes. She covers herself with her hands nonetheless and stares at his naked back and tight little ass, dimly registering what he’s saying to the men while her body is attempting to put the pieces of her back together. It’s taking longer than normal, but she attributes it to the stellar quality of the orgasm.

“You want to explain to me what in fuck you’re doing barreling down my goddamn door?”

Her gaze flits to the ceiling and a little thrill goes through her as he speaks to the men. His tone is calm enough, but she can hear the rage just below the surface and amusement bubbles up in her chest. She gets a peek around his hip as to whom the soldiers are and she realizes with a start that the one who knocked down the door is the same one who knocked her to the floor.

She hopes the Doctor eviscerates him.

“I—I beg your pardon, President!” _Good, the stupid fuck sounds genuinely scared_. “W-we came back in to find you and when you were nowhere to be found we got worried, and when we saw the slave was missing, too, well…I’m sorry, sir, but we assumed the worst!”

She hears the Doctor scoff. “Oh, fuck of, you piles of shite. What in fuck’s name could she have done to me? Did you see blood? Organs? Anything that would indicate I was no longer present on this _immortal_ coil?”

The men don’t reply and it’s all Clara can do not to laugh, despite her wits returning to her and telling her she is fucking insane for letting this man do such things to her and then laughing at his soldiers while she’s still stark naked, while they _both_ are still stark naked. She wonders idly if he’s still hard, and perhaps they see his cock as a threat, huge as it is? She has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing out loud and it’s a struggle.

“Get the fuck out.”

“But, sir—“

“Get. The fuck. OUT.”

She hears them shuffle away followed by the sound of the door scraping as it slides shut, some mechanism in it damaged from their ham-fisted attempts to get in.

The Doctor turns back around with a sigh, and she sees he is indeed still quite hard, but somehow, the thought isn’t as fun as it was a few moments ago. In fact, she’s starting to feel as cold inside as her body feels outside laying on the floor, and there’s a nagging idea at the back of her mind but she can’t pin it down for trying.

He holds out a hand to her to help her sit up, but she ignores it, pushing herself to sitting on her own, one arm held protectively around her breasts. Her legs fall a little deeper into the water, and the warmth of it is so soothing and relaxing and begins to wind its way up her legs into the rest of her body.

Her mind turns a little sluggish again, like it was when she was submerged and when he was touching her, sliding himself against her, using his fingers on her, then his mouth, and she’s thinking _oh god, can we do that again?_

She suddenly jerks out the water, pulling her legs out with a rough cry and scrambles back, away from the water and from him and she curls up, hiding behind her knees and she doesn’t know what happened but she knows she wasn’t entirely in control, and she feels sick.

The water. It’s the water. There’s something in there and it drugged her through her skin, she let him touch her, and despite how much she wants him, she’s sickened at the way it happened.

“Clara.”

He calls to her, no hint of uncertainty or worry in his voice and she suddenly sees red, wants to push off the floor and fucking rage at him for tricking her, for who he is right now, and can’t he see what he’s done to them? The close friendship and the fragile love she hoped was budding between them is boiling away in the scalding water he still stands waist-deep in.

She raises her eyes to his and hopes he can see the storm brewing in her expression despite her weak and seated position on the floor. 

She wishes she had a weapon. She’d aim right for his fucking crotch.

A small part of her mind is warning her to be careful, to tread with extreme caution, because this person in front of her went from being her best friend to a literal nightmare and she doesn’t know what name to call him of the two he’s given her, though she can think of several of her own she wants to use, none of them cutting enough.

“You.” Her voice is shaking with the rage she feels at how he violated her trust, her affection, used it against her, and for what? What reason did he have for drugging her like that and taking something she would have freely given if he were in his right goddamned mind?

“Clara, please.”

“Fuck you.”

He gets out of the water and walks towards her slowly, hands out in a placating manner and she scoots further back. If he touches her right now she’s going to kill him, and she doesn’t know how she’ll do it without a weapon, but she will.

“Don’t come near me, you sick son of a bitch.”

She’s so angry she doesn’t even care he’s still stark naked, though she notes his cock has deflated. Good. She’d like to rip the thing off.

He’s still advancing on her despite her warning.

“Clara, you have to listen to me.”

“No, I fucking don’t.” She pulls her legs in tighter, making herself smaller, imagining she’s a pressure bomb that will explode and annihilate him if she squeezes herself in hard enough.

He reaches her and she wants to vomit, scream, scratch and bite him all at the same time, but he only crouches closely in front of her, his hands still out, as if he means her no harm.

She scoffs audibly at the thought. Fucking daft twat. Of course he means her harm. He’s been fucking with her mentally and physically since she was thrown into his throne room, what the fuck makes her think he’ll stop now?

“Sweetheart, I had to.” He reaches out a hand and she smacks it away.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t fucking touch me.”

He scowls at her, clearly frustrated that she won’t give in. “Goddamn it, Clara. You need to listen to me, I can explain everything.”

Something in her snaps and she looks at him for a split second before she lunges, forgetting her nakedness in her rage, and she wraps a hand around his throat. And he lets her, lets her momentum topple them both over until she's straddling him, nude and so very angry, and she’s wrapped both hands around his neck and is squeezing, not doing much to hurt him, he’s so much stronger than her and she’s tired and tiny and useless but he lets her choke him, try to squeeze the life out of him, burn out her rage before her clenched teeth start to chatter from the sobs coming from her throat.

His large hands wrap around hers as she’s trying to kill him and her rage bleeds out of her and leaves her feeling used up and empty and she's crying quite hard, the sobs wracking her tiny, naked form. The Doctor makes a sympathetic noise underneath her and sits them up just as she loses any fight left inside her and collapses against him.

He’s holding her, stroking her back as she cries, and there’s nothing sexual about the embrace, just one person giving solace to another. He’s pushing her hair back and murmuring comforting nonsense in her ear and she’s like a fucking child again seeking the soothing only an adult can provide.

Her sobs start to taper off and she fully registers she’s in his arms and he’d holding her and she feels very safe despite how nude they are and how hard she was trying to kill him a few minutes earlier.

“Why?”

She feels him stiffen at her question but she doesn’t care, he said he could explain so he should fucking do just that, but her thoughts are without any real heat or hate.

“Why did you do that to me? Did you know?”

“Know what?” He sounds genuinely perplexed, but whether it’s because she’s talking without threatening him or because he doesn’t know what she’s talking _about_ , she can’t tell.

“I would have given it to you for free. You didn’t need to trick me.” She’s a petulant, pouting child in his arms and is disgusting herself. She feels like her Doctor is coming back to her and despite her lingering wariness, wants so to give herself up to him and his care, his duty of care for her and trust him again.

“Given me… _oh_. Oh, Clara. Oh, sweetheart, I wasn’t trying to trick you.” He’s squeezing her with affection, not murderous rage like she was earlier, and she sniffles against his shoulder. “No, darling, I would never trick you about…that.” Somehow she finds a little laugh inside her because she knows damn well that he’s telling the truth. He’d never trick her, about _that_. 

“Come on, big eyes.” And he’s getting up to standing, still naked, still holding her and she tightens her grip around him as he walks from the big, white bathroom to the big, white bedroom and sets them down on the big, white bed. 

“Sweetheart, I’m going to get us something to wear and then we’re going to have a chat.” His hair is drying and springy and she wants to run her fingers through it and fix the odd way it’s settling from the water. Her insides clench in discomfort at the thought of the water but she pushes the thoughts away and keeps her hands to herself, curling up again when he lets her go and stars towards what seems to be a closet on the opposite side of the room. She doesn't look at him, she stares at her toes and despite being nude, she’s not cold, not inside at any rate, not anymore.

He comes back swathed in a white, silky robe and wraps one just like it around her shoulders before sitting next to her on the bed.

Clara looks at him sitting so close to her and wonders how the hell he’s going to explain what happened.

He takes a deep breath but he doesn’t look at her. He looks at his hands, at his fingers tapping together like they’re doing it of their own volition and he clears his throat.

“I think you’re smart enough to know that there was something in the water.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But those guards 'bout to catch his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

“I think you’re smart enough to know that there was something in the water.”

She scoffs, a bit of usual snark coming back to her now that she’s clothed and out of that place. “No shit there was something in the water. What I want to know is did _you_ know about it beforehand?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He turns then to look at her, his eyebrows drawn down, eyes flashing with anger. At her? Him? She can’t tell. “I told you, I’d never trick you into that, Clara.”

She looks away, sheepish as she recalls that yes, he did say that and yes, she does believe him. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I realized there was something in the water as soon as I was in. It…affected me sooner than it did you, probably due to the difference in our species.”

“So why didn’t you say something to me?”

“I…couldn’t.”  
  
“Oh no? Your mouth seemed to work just fine to to me.” She hid behind her smart mouth to cover her discomfort.

He turns and looks her full in the eye for a minute, his face carefully blank. “My mind wasn’t what I would call entirely within my control for several minutes. It took a bit to adjust to the effects and by that time, you were…”

“I was what?”

“Having an altogether more _honest_ effect on me.” His eyes drop to her mouth.

“…Oh."

“Yes.”

“When did you…come back to yourself?”

“Right about the time you were in my lap.”

“…Well, what about me? My…reactions?”

“Whatever is in that water isn't mean for humans. What took me a few minutes to adjust to completely conquered you, I’d imagine.”

She looks away, shifting slightly on the bed. “I’d say that’s accurate.”

“Is it?” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes. I felt…I felt afraid of you when I got in, but it changed really quickly into feeling sleepy and hotter than the temperature warranted and it made me feel…complacent. No, _willing_.”

“I see.” His fingers thread together and he squeezes his joined hands. “Clara…you said…”

"Yes, I remember what I said.”

“I need you to know, it would have been the same for me.”

She whips her head up to look at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“So…so you wanted to do that? With me? Honestly?”

“Yes. I told you, I was able to marshal myself after a few minutes, but you were still…naked and still warm and I just…” He sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands. “Oh god, I wanted you and I couldn’t fucking see straight from it. I’m so sorry, Clara.”

She’s floored, her jaw drops open in shock and she almost smiles. He wants her, too. He wants her like she wants him and the water was fucking with them, clearing the path to what was already there and she’s fucking relieved.

“So…if we hated each other…?”

“We’d probably have tried to kill each other, yes.”

She laughs and covers her face with her hands, letting herself fall back on the bed. She pulls her hands away and sobers as she remembers the other issues at hand.

“There’s still the manner of your…behavior in the throne room.”

“Ah, yes, well…can we discuss that later?”

“No, we can discuss it now.”

She sees his head nod a little and he gulps audibly. “Fair enough.” She sits up, turns to face him so she can really see what goes across that expressive face of his, and that way, she tells herself, she can catch him when he inevitably tries to hide.

“What in hell was that about?”

He doesn’t respond, just cringes and keeps his head down and she knows he knows exactly what she’s asking but the bloody coward won’t just come out and tell her, will he. No, she’s going to have to pull this out of him piece by goddamn piece. It’s ok. It’s fine. She’ll get what she wants come hell or high…tide.

“Doctor?” She snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. “Still with me?” He nods. “Oh, good. Need a refresher?” He shakes his head, lets out a tiny ‘no’ and she crosses her arms, every inch the schoolmarm about to give an ear-blistering lecture to a delinquent.

“Then what were you on about wrapping your hand around my neck and shoving me against the wall? And don’t tell me it was for show, because everyone had gone by then!” Her hackles are up and she’s practically yelling at him now, but it’s fine because he deserves it. Doesn’t he? 

_Whatever. Yes he does._

“I’m sorry.” He’s meek and she hates it, hates him for acting this way. She wants him to fight back, to give her a reason to get out the remaining nervous energy still fizzing around her system and a good old-fashioned row should take care of it.

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, tell me _why_ you did that?” She pushes emphasis into the last words of her sentence because she’s seriously baffled. 

“Why, Doctor? You kicked everyone out, so why did you _then_ take the fucking _liberty_ of—“

_Oh…oh, shit._

“…Doctor.”

He slowly looks up at her, not in her eyes but at her mouth instead and even though she senses it, the reason why he kept pushing after everyone else was gone, he _will_ say the words for her. Goddamn him, if she has to reach down his throat and pull them out, he _will_ say them.

He shakes his head, turns his face away, and she can tell he’s desperate to let this go, to just let it fade into the atmosphere, never to be talked about or brought up again.

No fucking way she's letting that happen.

“Coward.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, but he won’t look at her. “I’ve been called worse, even by you.”

“Say it.”

“…No.”

“Say it, Doctor.”

He gets up, moves away from her, runs a hand through his thick silver curls and his frustration is evident, and mounting. “Clara—“

She follows him, determined to push him to breaking, to admitting what sick little thing she knows is sitting in his head. “You have a reason and I want to hear the words. Now say it.” 

“Please don't make me.” He looks at her helplessly and she almost relents, but she’ll be hanged right now before she’ll give him the satisfaction of being able to run from her. He can run from everyone else, but not her. So she does the only think she can think of in that fraction of a second to get him to react. 

She slaps him.

The crack rings in the room and his head snaps to the side, more from surprise than the force of her blow. She knows with her size and level of strength, it’ll barely hurt and won’t even leave a mark but she also knows this will shock the hell out of him. They who who never resorts to violence, except…

“Fucking tell me.” She hisses at him and his eyes grow wide and his brow crashes down before she sees his control snap and he's grabbing her shoulders and shoving her against the nearest wall, her head bumping against it. She has no time to realize before he’s in her face and he’s so fucking angry. 

“Because I liked it!” He yells at her, shoulders still gripped in his hands and he shakes her a little, moves in close to her face and she can feel his breath on her. “Is that what you want to hear? I _liked_ it, Clara. No, no that’s not quite right. I _loved_ it. _I. Loved. It.”_ He pushes her away, forgetting she's against the wall and moves a few paces back, his face dark and predatory and she's watching him turn into a robe-clad maelstrom before her eyes.

“And what the fuck is wrong with that? I’m always the one who finds the _right_ way out, the _peaceful_ way out, the way where as few die as possible. I’m the good Doctor!” He flings his hands out, face a maniacal grin and he laughs. “I’m the one who saves the day! Other people get to be evil, get to play with _their_ dark desires, but not me, not _The Doctor!_ ”

He moves close to her again, so quickly her vision swims and his voice is low and growling and he’s fucking seething with hurt and rage and want and she’s pinned by it and his arms as he braces his hands on either side of her against the wall.

“And you, Clara Oswin Oswald, with your big eyes and your good heart and your impossible life following me around this entire fucking universe and all the ones in between, you teased me, you goaded me, you _pushed_ me into giving into what I want most in this sick world, and so I took you. I’ll always _take_ you.”   
  
She whimpers, seeing the entendre in his words and his meaning goes straight to her core. She’s wet and squirming and thrillingly scared and his hand flutters up to her throat, hovering and twitching as he speaks. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

“And wanted it, so I _took_ your little white neck in my hand, and you felt so good, you fragile little bird, and you called me ‘President’, for once listening to what I had to say and not running your mouth off. I wondered if that lovely place between your legs would be as delicate as your throat, as the rest of you, if tasting you on my tongue would be as sweet as hearing obedience fall from yours.”

She’s forgetting how to breathe yet gasping at the same time, his nearness and the raw need and sexuality in his filthy words lighting her on fire, making her want to scream and beg for whatever he’ll dole out to her.

“I could feel your heartbeat, the scared little drumming in your chest, and I wanted to pull the rags off you right there and bite you, right above your heart and leave my mark there. I want to mark _you_ , Clara, inside and out, as _mine_ and god help any other fool who tried to _take_ you.”

She’s practically sobbing with need, her chest heaving with the desire to fuck, to beg him to fuck her and hurt her and forgive her for pushing him, teasing him, when all she wanted was his attention.

“So yes, Clara. I loved that darkness. I craved it. And you? You were too tempting to pass up any longer.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all...

“So yes, Clara. I loved that darkness. I craved it. And you? You were too tempting to pass up any longer.”

She shakes and moans at his words and his hands ghost down her body, flicking the edges of her robe aside, fingers burrowing between her legs, without grace but she needs it, needs his roughness right now, needs to be wrecked on his cock.

“Such wetness, little Clara.” He pushes two fingers inside her and she yelps in mingled relief at the touch and desperation for more of him. “Such noises, you needy thing, you desperate, needy woman, pushing into my mind and demanding things from me.” He pumps in an out of her and she’s losing her mind, moving her hips and fucking his hand.

“Do you want my cock, Clara? Do you need me inside you now?”

She pulls enough coherence together to speak, though it comes out as a sob. “Yes!”

“Oh, Clara, I don’t think you’d be able to withstand it if I gave you all of me.” His voice is mocking her with pity and he begins to withdraw his fingers.

She shakes her head frantically. “No, please! I need it, please, Doctor!”

He slides his fingers fully out and she keens in distress, scrabbling at his robe, trying to pull him back to her, but he just puts his hands on either side of her again and regards her, his breathing heavy but face filled with a dark sort of calm that fucks with her mind. “You—you can’t just stop, you can’t leave me like this!”

“Oh, yes I can, Clara. For good reason.”  
  
She breaks into frustrated sobs and gasps, his denial too great to bear as her body clenches helplessly, desperate to be filled again, but she pushes at him, trying to dislodge him, get him away from her so she can try and take care of herself, though in what way she doesn't know.

“Fucking _move_ , you son of a bitch.” But he doesn’t move, of course not, how could he when she's pushing in such a weak fashion, not really wanting him to go, just wanting him to put his fingers, cock, some part of hi  
back inside her and push her off the edge, make her scream for him so she can be rid of this unbearable, heavy want that’s dragging her down, but all she can do is swear at him and try to hurt him with her words, to egg him into giving her what she wants even if it’s harsh. She’ll take it and be all the better for it.

“No, beautiful, impossible girl. I won’t move. I’m going to stay with you and calm you down, but not in the way you want. Not yet.”

She manages to glare at him through frustrated tears that haven’t fallen yet, just sitting in her eyes and he’s blurry through them but still the same.

She half-heartedly pushes at him again, “Go away,” but there’s no heat in her words and she feels his arms come around her in a gentle embrace, soothing and warm and so unlike the rough, raw sexuality one display just a few minutes ago. She feels like she’s going mad when she clings to him and feels him pick her up gently and move them back to the bed.

He lays her down and maneuvers himself down next to her, and she goes willingly when he pulls her to him, cuddles her against his wiry frame and strokes her hair. She hears him make soothing noises in his throat and she’s beginning to relax, to think perhaps it’s for the best, actual fucking does complicate things and they’re messy enough already on this foreign (to her) planet with it’s weird customs and, of course, he’s still President of it all, isn't he?

She starts to fall asleep, the days events depleting her strength and she’s beginning to long for oblivion when he speaks again and his words bring her fully back to wakefulness. His tone is still soothing and there’s so much _love_ in it that she wants to cry all over again, but his words are what needs her attention.

“You need to learn, impossible girl, that even _you_ have repercussions to your actions.” He kisses her forehead and she’s at sea, unable to tell what the hell is going on despite how comfortable she is wrapped up in him.

“But maybe this is too much for you. Too soon.” He sighs, a great, heaving thing that is so full of world-weariness and it makes her want to say _no, not too much, not too soon, please,_ but she stays still and silent. She feels his chest shake and rumble with a small laugh. “I’ve had eons to learn this and you've had all of a day by comparison.”

A hand slides down to cup her ass and squeeze and he pulls her up a little and his erection presses against her vulva, their flesh hot and throbbing against one another, and she squirms in pleasure. She lets out a whimper of fear at being pulled apart by those feelings again without the benefit of release and he’s shushing her, soothing her with his dark voice.

“I know, darling, it’s very intense, isn’t it?” She lets out a little moan as he works her against him in motions so small and gentle she's not even sure it isn't just in her mind but she’s losing whatever sanity she’s regained since she was pulled from the wall.

He builds her towards climax and she flushes and shivers and clutches at him, so very close and she’s ready to shout with joy at finally, finally being able to let go in his arms, to come from his ministrations for the second time that day, but then he’s sliding a hand between them and pushing her away before she can find purchase on the edge of her orgasm and she wails, _no no no god no please!_ but he ignores her cries and keeps her at a small length away from him while she tries to figure out _why_ and _what_ and she feels so violent towards him it’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust.

She’s breathing hard and glaring daggers at him, wanting very much to choke him again and this time she’s not at all sure he’d make it out alive. He just stares back at her with something akin to pity in his eyes, and brings a hand up to stroke the hair back that’s fallen into her face.

“So angry, Clara. I know. And I’m sorry, truly. You have no idea how badly I want to give you what you want, but I told you. Consequences. You have to learn.” She’s shaking from unslaked lust and anger at him and herself and decides _fuck you_ and slides a hand under her robe, between her legs to touch herself and give herself some of the release he’s denying her

“No no, that’s not happening.” He grabs her hand snaking between her legs and then the other and rolls them, pinning her to the mattress. Their robes dislodge enough for almost full skin contact and his cock lands at the notch between her thighs once more and she’s thrusting up against him. He pushes his hips down to sill her, each hand wrapped around one of hers and he looks at her, brings his forehead to hers and seems to want so badly to take pity on her and give her what he knows she needs.

“Doctor…I can’t…”

Her voice shakes and she doesn't finish because she truly cannot say anything more. He pulls back a little to meet her eyes and scans them for…something.

He sighs in what seems like resignation.

“Alright. Yes. This once.” He begins to press against her rhythmically and she’s afraid to trust it but he continues speaking. “But Clara, you _will_ learn. After this, you will have to learn, do you understand?”

She’s nodding frantically, _yes, god yes, anything!,_ just to keep him moving and he does, but sighs again and it sounds almost sad. “No, you don’t. But you will.” And then he’s pressing harder, his movements sure and thick and she wants him inside her so much but is happy to settle for the bulk of him pressing against her right where she needs it, has needed it for what feels like centuries and his hips are so delicious as they grind and his hands hold her wrists down while she bucks in vain against him

Her orgasm rushes up to her, almost violent, almost painful in its intensity and she’s screaming in time with the pulsing contractions her body is putting her through. His name, his time lord name, comes out of her mouth and he’s so close to her she can feel his breath panting against her cheek as she’s helplessly riding the storm he’s causing in her.

The sharp intensity fades into little aftershocks that jolt through her and make her whimper underneath him. He’s still so hard against her, and they're slick with mingled sweat and her wetness that’s coating them both where he presses against her.

She’s gasping for breath, coming back to herself and dimly registers him maneuvering them under the blankets. He pulls her into him again, his front to her back, and she squirms, turns her head to talk to him despite sleep pulling hard at the edges of her mind.

“You…what about you?” He just shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Tomorrow.” is all he says to her, and sleep pulls her under.

—

Clara wakes up slowly, her memories of the previous day (night?) hazy and wonders for a brief second where she is and why she’s nearly naked, but it all comes rushing back to her. Light courses in through an architectural-looking window she didn’t notice the night before and she dimly remembers. _Right, two suns._

She realizes she’s alone, and pulls herself up to look around the room. Still as white as the last time her eyes were open, but with Gallifreyan sunshine streaming in through the oddly-shaped window, it looks…calmer.

She hears a noise, and the door to the throne room slides open, metal scraping against metal and she remembers the guards needing to use brute force to get it open. Apparently, this building (palace?) requires maintenance like any other, and she feels stupid for the thought.

Still, she’s unafraid when the door slides open because of what she remembers. Somehow she knows the Doctor is on the other side of that door and sure enough, he enters, fully dressed, in white of course, red cloak, gold neckpiece, all the same as yesterday.

She’s not afraid of anyone else coming, but she still feels a bit unsettled with him, uncertain from the events of the previous night. She pulls the robe and sheets around her as a ridiculous means of protection as he comes in, and he sees it, of course, quirking an eyebrow at her but saying nothing yet. He comes to the bed, sitting gracefully and she moves away from him slightly.

It’s the clothes. She can’t see the Doctor through the clothes, not yet, not after yesterday and even with him sitting near her and wearing the Doctor’s face and his silvery curls she normally loves so much and his blue, intense eyes that stare at her warmly, and his hand that comes up and strokes her face gently. Even then she can’t see him, but she wants to. Oh, how she wants to.

She looks down when his fingers brush against her face. “Clara.” She looks up at his voice and he’s smiling now. “How did you sleep?”

“Alright.” In truth, she slept like the dead, though the thought doesn't comfort her.

“Good.” His smile is genuine, reaching his eyes as they search her face. “Good.”

She’s nervous. Why is she so nervous? _Because he’s had his mouth on you and his cock practically in—_ “You’re all dressed up, Doctor. Going somewhere special?” She tries for humor and it falls flat. His gaze hardens and he gets up abruptly, looming over her. “It’s not a joke, Clara.”

“Sorry.” She’s genuinely contrite, no sass to be found, and it surprises her. Normally she bickers with him within an inch of their lives, and occasionally _literally_ within that inch, but something about that getup is messing with her. And the way he’s standing over her like an angry commander. “I was just teasing you.”

He relaxes, takes a step back, his hands fluttering near his sides like he wants to reach for her but isn’t sure it’s welcome. “It’s alright.”

“Is that something I can’t do anymore? Tease you?”

He pauses. “You can. Just…only when we’re alone.”

“Ok.”

He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “Clara, we need to talk.”

“…About last night?”

“About last night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, more is coming, don't you worry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spankings.

“About last night.”

Her face heats quickly and she takes a second to wonder at the human body’s ability to redirect blood in such a fascinating way instead of looking at him. All she wants is to disappear under the covers until he gives up and leaves, but of course that won’t fucking happen, will it? 

_Ok, Oswald. Be brave. You’ve faced worse one night stands than this._

Fine. He wants to talk? They’ll talk. She flips back the covers and gets out of the bed, tying the robe tightly and hiding her nudity in response to his ridiculous Presidential garb, stupid, pompous outfit that it is. She stands in front of him, pulls herself up to her full, if diminutive, height and crosses her arms over her chest, trying to project a bravery she doesn’t quiet feel.

She looks him in the eye, fierce little thing that she is, and sees his mouth open a bit, one side quirking up in some semblance of an admiring smile. “Clara…I—“

“What, Doctor? What do you want to say about last night? That it was a mistake? That we should forget it and move forward?” She’s got…issues right now, and she’s not even bothering to hide them from her voice. She moves closer to him, gets in his space despite a bell going off in her head that’s warning her not to push him, not today. “Tell me.”

It’s an echo of her words from the night before, and she wonders if he’ll snap again without a slap to prompt him. A sick part of her mind she doesn’t care to look too closely at hopes he does. She wants to see what he’d do.

“I…It wasn’t a mistake.”

She deflates a little. She was so sure he’d shutter himself and push her away and it’s new territory that he doesn’t and the build up, the argument she planned in her head vanishes. “Oh. Ok, well…good.”

“But you may come to see it as such.”

He’s being cryptic. She hates it when he’s cryptic. Especially because she knows it’s his poor attempt to get her to figure something out so he doesn't have to deal with the pain or awkwardness of saying it. 

_Goddamn him._

She tilts her head a little and stares at him in the way she knows unnerves him, eyes wide and falsely innocent. “I don’t get it.”

His eyes widen in response and she knows she’s hit her mark. _Gotcha._ He sighs and looks over her head and around the room like he’s searching for something. Patience? Words? Something. His eyes come back to her and he takes her arm gently, guides her to sit back on the bed and she complies, feeling slight charged and very curious.

“Do you remember anything I said to you last night?”

“I remember lots of things from last night, Doctor.” She gives him cheek with a hint of a smile and his eyes flash at her, his smile an evil thing, and she’s suddenly much warmer than she was a few moments ago.

He leans over her, bracing his hands on the bed and she doesn’t remember it being tall enough for him to do that, but what does she know, she’s short, and he’s leaning into her personal space, his voice low and sexy and a very dangerous purr.

He speaks slowly, like she’s an easily-frightened animal. “And do you remember, Clara, when I was nestled between your thighs, and you wanted release so badly that you promised me anything to get it?”

Her breathing comes quickly as his words cause sensation to lance down to her groin, her muscles clenching in response to his words, but a thin thread of worry also sparks in her. She does remember what he said, every word of it, she was just too turned on to give a fuck, but she feels like she’s about to pay for that now.

“Y-yes, Doctor. I remember.”

“Good. That should make this much easier for you to grasp.”

“What—“ but she doesn’t get to finish her sentence. He sits next to her on the bed and in one smooth motion pulls her across his lap and tugs the bottom of her robe up until her pert little ass is exposed to the air. 

He’s pressing her down with one arm across her back to keep her still as the other hand is ghosting over the swell of her, nearly ticklish, and it makes her squirm and almost giggle as her breath catches on a gasp when she feels the first sting of a slap against her.

She’s stunned for a moment before she starts struggling against him but she might as well struggle against steel for all the good it does her now. Her struggles earn her another slap, harder than the last and this time it actually hurts.

“Ow! What the fuck, let me go!”

Three quick slaps in succession and she’s so shocked she stops moving, holds very still, her breathing heavy and tears threatening to spill. 

_Ok. Ok, movement equals a slap. Got it. Don’t move, Oswald._

She tries to speak. “Doctor, what—“ _Slap!_ “Oh, come on—!“ _Slap!_

She’s frustrated and angry and wondering why the fuck he’s got her over his knee like a misbehaved child as his hand comes back to her ass, and she braces for impact but nothing happens. 

He merely lays his hand over her and she can feel how hot her flesh has become from his smacking her and she presses her face into the mattress as he massages her, gently, keenly aware of the areas that hurt the most and applying more pressure to those areas. 

She moans in pain and relief at having the abused flesh soothed with his hands and she’s sniffling a little and bubbling in indignation and dying to ask him why.

“I told you that you would have to learn, Clara.”

She stiffens and speak her mind recklessly. “‘Learn’? Learn what? The fuck is there to learn from this?!”

She braces for a slap, _worth it!_ , but nothing comes and she sags in relief. His slaps were getting harder and she’s not sure how much more she can take. There’s something else tickling the back of her mind that feels suspiciously like disappointment, but she doesn't care to examine it too closely.

“You need to learn there are consequences for your actions.”

She takes a breath and chooses her words carefully, though she wants to rail at him like a banshee. “I…know that already.”  
  
She feels him shake his head. “No, Clara, I don’t think you do.”

Her mind works furiously and she calculates. “Well, then, why don’t you let me up and we can talk about it, yeah? No more of…whatever this is, ok?”

She hears the movement of him cocking his hand back but doesn’t have time to brace before it comes back down.

 _SLAP!_ He lands hard on her poor, reddened bottom and she lets out a pained yelp that turns into sobs and struggles as hard as she can to dislodge him, not caring that she sounds like a little girl or that she’s sobbing from the pain, the hurt feelings, the confusion at his treatment and the stupid fucker is so calm, so collected, peaceful even, _goddamn him and his stupid face_ , and she wants to hurt him like he’s hurting her.

“No, Clara, you will not manage me. Not here, not ever, is that clear? You are not in charge here, this is not the TARDIS.”

“Was I ever in charge on the TARDIS?” She has no sense of self-preservation, her words are angry and she’s trying to mock him and push him, just to see how far he's willing to take this.

He slaps her again, hard enough to pull something almost like a scream from her throat. She yelps and sobs and feels something inside her crack, not break, just crack and she wonders why the crack isn’t painful, why it feels like a promise more than a mark of damage. 

What will spill out from those cracks if enough are made inside her?

“Ok! Ok, enough. Please.” She sobs, her face presses into the mattress and it muffles her words and crying but he seems to understand. He moves her, lifts her and readjusts her so she’s on her front on the bed and she lets him, doesn’t fight him when he gently removes her robe and pulls the covers over her to rest at her lower back.

She feels the bed dip as he sits next to her, and his large, warm hand is smoothing over her back, soothing her hurt feelings and calming her.

“Good girl, Clara. That was very hard, I know, but you did so well.”

She has no real idea what he’s talking about, but a little thrill goes through her at his praise. She whimpers, shifts a little and he murmurs in soothing tones, his warm hands lulling her into near-sleep.

The pain dulls to a kind of throbbing warmth, a glow about her backside and she marvels at it, at what she can withstand without breaking. She’s still sniffling a little and turns her head to look at him, finding to her surprise that she doesn’t hate him for what he’s done, though she hated him while he was doing it. She almost…understands and it’s a realization she doesn't want to look at too closely.

He pulls open a drawer in a side table and sets a small pot near her on the bed and she notices how pretty it is, glazed earthenware and light blue and filled with something that smells pleasantly herbal, the scent wafting to her when he takes off the lid.

He pulls the sheet down past her still-throbbing flesh and takes some of whatever is in the jar onto his fingers, spreading it across his hands and applying them to her flesh.

She moans softly as the sting intensifies before releasing and she sees him smile, warm and kind and she smiles back as he kneads her, coaxes her to relax, to submit to his gentle touch.

“Was I really so bad, Doctor?”

He pauses, but she’s not afraid he’ll spank her again. She knows somehow, instinctively, that part is over. _For now._ The thought sends a quiet rush through her.

“No, Clara. You’re weren’t bad, you just didn’t understand.”

She’s floating and his hands are the only thing keeping her from lifting into the atmosphere and she’s so tired, but a good kind of tired, the kind after hard work that yields lovely results.

“Can you…help me understand?” She smiles at him, almost shy and he moves a hand to brush her hair out of her face, gently brushing her cheek and he smells like the nice herbal cream so she breathes him in, feeling oddly content.

“Yes, impossible girl, I can. And I will.” He moves to cap the jar again, and places it back in the drawer before sitting back down, closer to her than before and presses a loving kiss to her temple and whispering in her ear. “And you’ll love it.”

Her belly clenches with desire at her words and she squirms a bit as he stands. He notices, of course he does, but he smiles down at her fondly. “I have to meet with the new council. Stay here while I’m gone. You’re not a prisoner, but you’re safer in here and I won’t worry if I know you’ve obeyed me.”

She nods, still squirming a little, but feels no shame for the desire that’s building in her of its own accord. “Of course.”

“Good girl.” Before he leaves, he turns back to her, the dark, evil smile back on his face.

“Oh, and Clara, while I’m gone, feel free to amuse yourself as you like,” she lets out a whimper at his directive, “but darling, save a few for me, will you?” And he’s gone.

Clara lays there for a minute before slipping her hand between her legs, and gasps at how wet she is, wetter than she can ever remember being and wonders when that started. Was it when he had her over his knee? When he massaged the pain away and took care of her? Or was it the last-minute permission he gave before he left?

She’s suffused with warmth at the sudden idea that she's pleased him in some way, though _how_ she doesn't know. She doesn’t think too hard about it, instead using her hands to drive herself crazy to wild imaginings of what else he’s going to do to her later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you.


End file.
